


Overlord's Spaghetti

by DragonNoodles



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: overlord is being intimidating, that's all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonNoodles/pseuds/DragonNoodles
Summary: Overlord's culinary skills are not the greatest.





	Overlord's Spaghetti

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get a hand of writing Trepan and Overlord.

Life was good. Not the most perfect, idylistic one, but it kept Trepan alive.

Frankly, he wasn’t complaining. After somehow dodging the bullet in a form of a very massive and furious warlord of the Decepticons, Megatron, he was traveling from one planet to another on his own. The encounter with Megatron had been a nerve-wrecking one; Trepan assumed luck had stood by his side.

Since that day, Trepan had retired from mnemosurgery. His needles weren’t useful anymore, not for _that_ kind of usage. Sure, the needles proved to be handy in everyday situations. Who could have known a mnemosurgeon would learn to use them to knit a scarf? Or use them as a fork?

The ship Trepan had used to escape from his certain death rested on a deserted planet. He sat in a chair much larger than seven and half Trepans combined; the chair sometimes doubled as a bed with its spacious seat. In fact, the entire ship served him as a portable bed, because Trepan excelled at sleeping anywhere.  
The immense size reminded him of someone he once had taught. That person was most likely dead. But he didn’t care.

Except that _he_ was very, very alive.

* * *

 

Crossed arms, a face that could strike fear in Megatron himself and a foot swinging. Impatient, cranky. That was Trepan right now. The table he was sitting at was too tall for his own good, thus he had placed several unused datapads to serve him as a taller seat.  
The table - oh, it was spotless. Trepan could see his own grouchy reflection.

And then, the smell hit him - the smell of energon and Engex. He knew that smell way too personally, evoking memories he was certain had been long forgotten. He huffed, almost sneezed, to try and get his sensors clean. But the smell simply lingered there. Trepan was starting to loathe it; there were reasons for that.

Finally, _he_ emerged. A bulky, humongous mass of ununtrium-infused Point One Percenter strolled to the table, carrying a tray with two plates of Energon spaghetti and two glasses of Engex. It was hard to tell if he had been attempting to tone down his menacing nature. His entrance sent shivers up Trepan’s spine.   
It was nearly impossible not to look away from him. Especially the grin on his lips was strangely captivating, whereas it grimly reminded who had the fortune to possess these lips. And his optics? Trepan had lost a staring contest with him way too many times. Even now, Trepan sheepishly averted his gaze.

The bloodthirsty mech sat down on his chair at the opposite end of the table. The chair creaked painfully under his weight. Trepan winced inwardly. Overlord did not seem to be too phased by the sound of the chair being tortured by his own aft.

“Trepan,” he addressed him.  
“... Overlord.” He repeated the gesture in a low tone.  
Overlord stared at him intently. His toothy grin permanently resided on his face as if his murderous puppy-like excitement was trying to wrestle itself out from the depths of his psychopathic mind.

This brutal silence lasted for a few minutes. Trepan felt like his spark was slowly giving away.

None of them moved. That was until Trepan finally locked his optics on Overlord’s massive chest.  
“Trepan, optics are up here.” Overlord pointed at his head. Trepan’s entire head shot up to meet his gaze.

Overlord smiled. His servo gestured at Trepan’s own plate of Energon spaghetti. Trepan’s face scrunched subconsciously. He was sick of the same meal eaten almost every other day. 

“After you, Doc’.” Manners. At least Overlord had some manners.

Trepan’s isolation from the flying brick tank had rendered his fearful obedience into a non-existing concept, now unknown to him. Yet, a flood of memories swarmed his processor, reminding Trepan of those dreadful times when he had unwillingly became Overlord’s teacher. Any form of defiance or refusal to comply the Phase Sixer’s wishes would result in some form of punishment. Usually Overlord prefered the psychological version, but there were times when Trepan created a Trepan sized dent in the wall.

Now, it his fear was gone. Replaced by a defiant, confident Trepan.

He looked at the plate of energon spaghetti. Probably the only thing Overlord can make. The same thing, just different slightly flavours.

“No.” Trepan shook his head and pushed the plate away from himself. “No, thank you.”

Overlord stood up. His optics dimmed, but otherwise, his face was unreadable.

“Ungrateful.” He growled, his large steps bringing him instantly close to Trepan. The mnemosurgeon slid right under the table, knowing full well that he had just insulted Overlord’s very limited culinary skills. Trepan couldn’t stay under the table for too long and he immediately emerged at the opposite end of the table, scrambling back onto his feet. Overlord was right after him, moving at his slow, intimidating pace.

“Listen - I didn’t mean to offend you--” his hand shot forward as if that could help keep Overlord in the safe distance, “--I’m just… Just…”

No. He saw no point in arguing. Overlord kept nonchalantly approaching him, looming over him and… Trepan’s old habits resurfaced. He turned around on his heel, darting it out from the dining area. He never looked back. He never wondered why he didn’t hear Overlord’s thunderous footsteps right after him. Better be safe than sorry.

Trepan ran into a room he had been using as his main Habsuite. The doors locked after him and the mnemosurgeon hid under his desk. Right. As if those doors were going to stop Overlord. As if this desk provided him a perfect hiding spot. Right. No. He was doomed.

His sensitive audials sensed heavy footsteps walk pass the doors followed by an eerie silence. For a moment, the only thing Trepan heard, was his own panicky spark.

“Tomorrow.” Overlord said and left like nothing happened. Trepan could hear him even through the thick walls and doors of the ship.

Tomorrow. Trepan wasn’t really looking forward to it. But maybe - maybe there was a tiny hope Overlord had changed. Maybe.

All he knew was that he wouldn’t be able to recharge this night.


End file.
